Not, in honesty, the greatest single to be run up the LCD Soundsystem flagpole – and I write this before the chorus has begun its inevitable tread round those Ibiza Uncovered-style shows that zoom in on women yakking up in their handbags on a street in Magaluf, taking a chisel to your soul in the process. But, as Lou Reed might put it, James Murphy's week beats your year, and this flagrant pillaging of the Velvet Underground's White Light/White Heat and Bowie's Boys Keep Swinging drums up a fun both rowdy and comic, like being chased by an angry Bernie Clifton on his ostrich.

There are beautiful girls, all over the world. But, in the opinion of BOB – AKA New Orleans singer/rapper Bobby Ray – they have nothin' on you, bay-bee. Exactly what makes you so bloody special is something that gets lost somewhere in Bobby's barrage of charming platitudes, but if we're to believe the line "Baby you the whole package/ Plus you pay your taxes", you're an alluring blend of good looks and shrewd fiscal responsibility. Gordon Brown with Beyoncé's legs. Something like that.

Tetchy dance-punk easiest described as "a bit like Foals", although the precocity of youth sees them cramming a load else – stuttering dancehall beats, ska keys, a bit of Pigbag's Papa's Got A Brand New Pigbag, but I might be imagining that – in as well. Dangerous territory, as you will know if the name Hadouken! means anything to you, but 6174 is possessed with the right mix of urgency and turn-on-a-dime dynamics to swerve wacky novelty and carve its own path.

Woo! Party at Alexandra Burke's place! Funny how house parties in music videos have zero in common with their real-life equivalent, where every available plughole is vomit-clogged, a local DJ repeatedly sequesters the stereo to put on his new dubstep mix, and the kid from up the road is gamely attempting to kick out all your banisters. The closest All Night Long gets to this is that two thirds of the way through, a guy called Pitbull who says he's a rapper shows up, and he absolutely stinks.

Wasn't quite expecting a Daily Mail columnist burnt in effigy or anything, but when bands bounce back from a tragedy as heavy as that which befell Boyzone, you at least anticipate a weepie or two on the cards. Yes, Love Is A Hurricane begins in depths of despair – "On a ledge, but I can't leap" croons Ronan, but by the yomping piano chorus, we're learning that love is not just like a hurricane, but also like "a crazy train". And, lo, the sweetest emotion is described using the terminology of the faster rides at Alton Towers.